Saturday, August 17
Our train out of Penrith was due to arrive at just after 9am. Sara’s train to London would be coming in from the north, and we were headed that way. So we sat on opposite sides of the tracks, waiting. We waved goodbye as her train approached the platform.
As usual, our train was over half an hour late. I remember that Peter, our Woodstock host, had mentioned in our pre-exchange correspondence that he hoped we had a successful experience with the UK trains. He said his daughter traveled back and forth from college by train, but didn’t mention using them himself. Now I understand. If you have to be somewhere by a particular time, train travel is unreliable. It only takes as long as it’s supposed to get somewhere, but it’s usually held up before it gets to the station where you’re getting on. Apparently, on this day, there was a delay because of construction.
Today we traveled with our luggage piled atop the travel table between us. I tried to ignore Art’s profane mutterings about the efficiency of the British rail system and the adequacy of storage. I concentrated on the scenery. Our journey only lasted a bit over two hours. What I remember most was that one of the stations was at Lockerbie, Scotland. The modest rural town was made infamous in 1988 as the wreckage site of a Pan Am plane downed by a terrorist bomb.
As we came into Edinburgh, we could see that it was an old stone-building city, with new building faces going up downtown. The number of railroad tracks multiplied, giving us a clue as to the size of the population center. The last half mile or so of our journey was underground. When we reached the station and staggered off the train with our luggage, we were in a far larger station than we’d previously experienced. Nearly a dozen sets of track were surrounded by shops, kiosks, newspaper stands, electronic arrival and departure boards and throngs of energetic, purposeful Scots and backpack-laden young people. Everyone but us knew where they were going. I was reminded of the scene in “Wizard of Oz” where Dorothy wonders which way to go and a scarecrow responds something like “This way, or this way.” Very confusing. I am usually a skilled navigator in public places, but the Edinburgh train station was a challenge.
I searched for directional signs and finally headed up three flights of stairs to street level. Art followed me, complaining about the annoyance of a train station so far below ground. We emerged from the station, immediately in the midst of several thousand people enjoying not only a weekend, but the annual Edinburgh Festival. Here is how Rick Steves describes it:
One of Europe’s great cultural events, Edinburgh’s annual festival turns the city into a carnival of culture. There are enough music, dance, art, drama, and multicultural events to make even the most jaded traveler drool with excitement. Every day is jammed with formal and spontaneous fun. A number of festivals – official, fringe, book, film, and jazz and blues – rage simultaneously for about three weeks each August….At street level, multiple activities in the large open plaza looked like a gypsy gathering – a carnival atmosphere with jugglers and musicians and street vendors. Across the plaza, a humming machine played calliope music as its attached single-occupant contraptions swung over passers-by in enormous loops; young adolescents in the buckets shrieked with excitement. Shaggy-haired young people passed through the crowds, handing out playbills for a multitude of dramatic and musical offerings.
My immediate task was to find a phone to call the B&B, find out whether our room was ready, and how on earth to get there. Art was right beside me, but it was so noisy I had to shout to make myself heard. “Watch my luggage while I find a phone.” Art’s face was a study in discomfort. Noisy crowds disturb him. He likes to be able to see what’s going on all around him – probably a remnant of his Vietnam service – and in the center of Edinburgh on this day that was impossible. I left him sitting on a stone bench surrounded by our suitcases.
Fortunately, English currency can be accepted throughout the United Kingdom. I found a phone and, for a change, the call went through on my first attempt. Marcella, the B&B hostess, answered. She told me we couldn’t check in until 5 pm, and instructed me on which bus to take. Between the noise around me and Marcella’s Scottish brogue, I could barely understand her. But I could tell she was cross. She’d asked that we call ahead to let her known when we’d be arriving in the city. I thought about asking her to repeat the directions, but decided against it. I doubted a second time through the instructions would be any easier to translate. After all, we were the ones with the accent!
I placed a second call, to Ros, to make arrangements for our dinner gathering. Her friendly, welcoming voice calmed me, eased me away from the stress of my first call and the jostling festival activity just outside. They would pick us up at the B&B at six.
I found Art again in the swirl of activities outside. The energy had been exhilarating at first, but I was ready for some quiet and a slower pace. Spending two hours in this festive place would have been more attractive had we not been limited by the responsibility for all our luggage. I scanned the main street in both directions and saw six bus stops. I suspected that each stop represented an entirely different route, and only one of them would get us to our B&B. I remembered Marcella saying to cross the street and stand under the … something. Under what? The large clock with the ornate hands? The scaffolding of the building under repair? I knew the B&B was off Dalkeith Road, but that was it.
We had two hours to kill before we could get into our room, so I suggested we take a “Hop On Hop Off” tour of the city; the stop was close by, on our side of the street. There was room in the front of the bus for our luggage, and it would be a good way to familiarize ourselves with the layout of the place we’d be exploring. I felt a little foolish hauling two suitcases and two backpacks onto the tourist bus, but by this time I was feeling tired enough to be a little cranky. I’m better sitting down when I feel that way. As I looked out the window of the red double decker, I considered what Art would have in store if he uttered so much as a peep of complaint.
The Hop On Hop Off tour was erratic. In addition to the festival, much of central Edinburgh was undergoing a structural facelift. Scaffolding stacked and staggered over sidewalks and overlapped into the narrower streets. Some streets were closed to traffic. An inconvenience in ordinary times, it was especially hectic during this festival. City bus drivers familiar with the detours leaned on their horns as out-of-town traffic and locals inched along. Our guide’s talk was choppy and disjoint; timed under ordinary traffic conditions, it didn’t match the traffic flow. I had trouble figuring out where to look, and when, to see the points of interest.
By the time we were back at our starting point I had a headache and I was hungry. We struggled off the bus with our luggage and found the stop for Dalkeith Road. Two signs were mounted on side-by-side poles. Twenty people stood in line. I couldn’t tell whether we should go to the end of that line, because it wasn’t clear which bus they were waiting for. I didn’t want to offend by cutting in, but I didn’t want to miss our bus. Art hissed at me to move closer to the curb. I hung back with my suitcase. I felt his hand on my back, propelling me forward towards the bus pulling into the stop lane. A dozen people surged toward the door of the bus. I was part of the surge. I saw the sign on the front of the bus – “Dalkeith Road”. If the bus was going in the right direction, we were headed toward our Edinburgh B&B. I hauled my suitcase up the steps of the bus and sank into a seat while Art paid the driver. As he made his way towards me, I could see he was annoyed again. Apparently I wasn’t being assertive enough for maneuvering through city traffic. Art sat down without saying anything to me. Fortunately for him.
Ten minutes later we pulled the rope for our stop and disembarked. The B&B was two blocks up a side street. It was 4:45 when we knocked on the door. No one answered, so we sat on a bench in the garden for 20 minutes until our hostess arrived. As Marcella let us into her elegantly Scottish lobby, she chastised us again for not calling ahead. She reminded us that she had errands to run during the day, and if she didn’t know when her guests were arriving, she couldn’t schedule her errands. By this time I was even hungrier. I had swallowed a couple of aspirin on the bus without water, but they hadn’t provided much relief for my headache. I apologized faintly to the hostess for our rudeness and followed her up the wide carpeted stairs to our room on the second floor.
The room was high ceilinged, ornately decorated and tiny. I sank onto the firm, comfortable bed, grateful for the rest. A nap during the day is rare for me, but I think I may have slept for a few minutes while Art took his shower. After all the walking we’d done during the last week, I was more tired now than I’d been the whole time in Penrith. And I was cranky, which doesn’t usually happen on vacation.
Ros and her husband Charles arrived promptly at 6. We headed first for their favorite scenic overlook. From the parking lot near the top of a hill to the south of the city, we climbed on a worn path to the windy summit. There should have been an artist sitting there with his canvas and a palette. The early evening light cast a lovely warm glow over Edinburgh.
From the hilltop we drove to Ros’ and Charles’ favorite neighborhood Chinese restaurant, where their grown daughter and son joined us for dinner. Art and I encouraged our hosts to order their favorite selections. The conversation was varied and interesting; I was impressed by the thoughtfulness and maturity of Ros’ children – about the same age as my two sons, but, it seemed to me, much more self-assured and settled into their adult lives. Aside from an interesting cracker-and-something appetizer, I was disappointed in the food. I’m sure it was excellent, but I’m a comparer when it comes to Chinese food. And there is great variation. Art says it’s because Chinese dishes use whatever the local meats, vegetables and seasonings are. In the past five years we’ve eaten Chinese food in Ireland, Scotland, and China, Washington DC and Scotland. The most authentic was undoubtedly in China, but our favorite is still Tai Ho, in Kenmore, Washington.
Sunday, August 18
We awoke to the smell of bacon frying. Outside, the sky threatened rain. We’re from Seattle, though, so we made our sightseeing plan anyway. We had the whole day to see our choice of Edinburgh attractions.
At breakfast, a couple at our table was discussing the two plays they’d seen at the Festival the day before. Another man talked about how he’d gotten tickets to the Tattoo, the military music presentation that is a traditional high point of the August festivities. Though we’d known the Festival would be going on during our stay in Edinburgh, we’d made no plans to see any of the shows or events. Other guests at the B&B had traveled from the US specifically for the Festival. I felt mild regret that we didn’t have more time to spend in Edinburgh, but recalling the frenetic pace of the city the day before, I didn’t think I was up to joining in such energetic happenings. We’d been in the UK for nearly two weeks, physically active on most days, and I was beginning to wind down. As usually happens after two weeks of travel, occasional thoughts of home were creeping into my mind.
We left the B&B with our raingear tucked into our daypacks. As we disembarked from the bus at the city center, the rain started. I shrugged off my pack and opened it. I was dismayed to see that I’d brought the bottoms of my raingear and left the jacket at the B&B. I watched Art don his jacket, considered just making do without mine, decided against it, and told him what had happened. We crossed the street, waited for another bus to take us back to the B&B to get my rain jacket. Nearly an hour of our sightseeing time was lost. I was annoyed at myself, at the unfriendly weather, at the buses that didn’t come right by, at the crowds in town.
We walked up the hill to Edinburgh Castle, considered a “must see” by nearly every travel book and friend who’s been there. Here is what Rick Steves has to say:
The fortified birthplace of the city 1,300 years ago, this imposing symbol of Edinburgh sits proudly on a rock high above the city. While the castle has been both a fort and a royal residence since the 11th century, most of the buildings today are from its more recent use as a military garrison. It’s a fascinating and multifaceted sight….It was a good climb on narrow rain-slicked streets. I was sufficiently out of sorts to have just skipped the Castle, but I was on a mission. My cousin Judy had visited Edinburgh the year before. In one of the gift shops at the Castle, she’d seen a book of crocheted afghan patterns for the Scottish clans, including one for McNeal (my mother’s family name), but she hadn’t bought it. When Judy returned home, she regretted her decision, because my cousin Patti, who crochets, said she’d like to make one. When Judy and I were discussing our upcoming trip, Judy asked me to pick up the pattern book if I could find it. I said I would. She told me to look in the back of the shop, in the left-hand corner.
We bought tickets and, remembering our great experience with audiophones in Bath, paid for two recorders and headsets. Art and I explored the castle grounds together for about an hour.
Here are Art’s comments:
The Castle had long been a fortification, and there were different types of cannon from all ages. There were even slits in the walls for the arrows and spears from the early time in the old Castle. Just a real strategic fortress.When I started into the building that housed the display of the Scottish Crown Jewels, Art and I got separated.
Of course, the audiophones started off at how Edinburgh was inhabited first by a group of people, who then had heard that there were some people who had moved in about 200 miles away. And they went down there to kick them out and were roughly defeated. And as they were scrambling back to their city, the other tribe came in and destroyed the whole plan and dragged them off as slaves. It wasn’t as good a fortification as they might have thought it was.
It was very interesting, and I was rather enrapt following the audiophone in the different areas. Real guy stuff.
The line was long inside the stone building, the corridors narrow and the lighting dim. I tried to pay attention to the murals and the encased displays, but I was distracted. I imagined Art retracing his steps looking for me, worrying about me. The line inched forward. As soon as I’d spent a few minutes looking at the Crown Jewels, I left the building and returned to the castle courtyard. The rain had nearly stopped, but I left my bright yellow rain jacket on and climbed stone stairs to the castle gate. I stood there, above the crowd, and looked for Art’s similar yellow jacket. I spent over half an hour watching the sightseers, expecting to see Art approaching me any minute, grouchy that I hadn’t paid close enough attention to stay together.
The rain started up again. I put up the hood of my jacket. I descended the steps and walked across the courtyard, returning to the exhibit building. No Art. I walked back to where I’d last seen him – the front of the church where a falconer worked with his birds and talked to the sightseers. I was disappointed that he wasn’t there. We’ve lost each other several times at Sea-tac, our home airport, and after energetic conversations attempting to identify the other person as the one at fault, we’ve agreed that, as soon as we realize we’ve lost each other, we will return to the last place we were together. That has proven to be a successful strategy. But not on this day at Edinburgh Castle.
About our separation, Art says:
I was in line and saw a person ten people in front of me in the crowd that I thought was Linda. After finishing the Crown Jewels exhibit, a sign said to go right on in to the main Hall of the Knights, which I did. That was when I found out that the person a few ahead of me wasn’t Linda. So I went through that building, figured she was following the tour according to the audiophone, and then went back out to the beginning of the Crown Jewels. Then I saw a bunch of people up in the church, so I walked over to the front of that. That’s where the falconers were. Walked around several places trying to keep the beginning of the line of the Crown Jewels in sight. Didn’t see Linda at all. I was starting to get a little anxious.It was raining fairly steadily by this time. I considered whether I should make my way down the hill to the city center and take the bus back to the B&B. What if I watched and waited until the Castle closed at 5, and I didn’t find Art? Would he go back to the B&B? Would it be safe to walk back down the hill by myself?
Suddenly, Art was walking up. “Wasn’t that an interesting exhibit?” I asked him what he was talking about. “The Crown Jewels. You got in front of me and then I lost you. So I took my time and figured we’d meet up again outside the building.” He had been poking along, enjoying the exhibit, as I stood in the cold courtyard rain for 45 minutes and watched for him.
We found one gift shop and I scoured it for the clan crochet book. No luck. I asked a clerk for assistance. She told me she’d worked in the shop for two years and had never heard of such a book, and that all the gift shops on the grounds carried the same merchandise.
When we were just about to the entrance to the Castle again, I saw another gift shop. In the back left-hand corner I found the book exactly where Judy had described. Mission accomplished! To reward myself for my diligence, I picked up children’s T-shirts for our two-year-old grandchildren Kyle, Mary and Malayne.
My mood improved, Art and I decided to walk the Royal Mile in the rain. Rick Steves describes the Royal Mile like this:
This is one of Europe’s most interesting historic walks. Start at the top and amble down to the palace. The Royal Mile, which consists of a series of four different streets – Castlehill, Lawnmarket, High Street, and Canongate… is actually 200 yards longer than a mile. And every inch is packed with shops, cafes, and lanes leading to tiny squares….Originally, there were two settlements here, divided by a wall: Edinburgh lined the ridge from the castle at the top. The lower end, Cannongate, was outside the wall until 1856.We passed beneath the Castle gate and descended the hill. The Royal Mile stretched out ahead of us, a fairly straight trek sloping gradually downward. The drizzle transformed into a steady rain. I decided to make do with just my rainjacket, as I was wearing my convertible nylon pants which dry quickly once the rain has stopped. Within two blocks I was dry under my jacket but my pants were wet, water wicking upward from the ankles. Around us, people dodged into doorways; the street cleared quickly. We decided to stop for lunch and wait out the rain. Apparently that was a common thought, as we found most of the eating places full, hangers on willing to wait in line indoors for a vacating table.
Five blocks from the Castle we found a tiny soup and sandwich café, an empty table in a corner behind the open door. The steaming bowl of soup was tasty and filling, and the split sandwich an opportunity to savor wonderful bread. By the time we emerged from the shop my energy had returned, and our walk through the rain seemed not an inconvenience but an adventure.
I wish I could say we lingered at shop windows and took the sidewalk vendors up on their offers to step inside a streetside theatre venue to see a new play by a promising young artist. But we didn’t. Instead, we walked the length of the Royal Mile. You have to walk the Royal Mile, we’d been told, and we were going to do that. Toward the bottom of the walk we were just about alone in the rain. The shops thinned and were replaced by stolid gray brick structures, probably old storehouses or commercial buildings of some kind. Certainly not charming. Just brick buildings. At the very bottom of the Royal Mile was a “Do Not Enter” sign and a courtyard. Clearly we were at the end of our walk.
I looked behind me. The walk back up the Mile was not the least inviting. The sidewalks were shiny with rain, the streets with only light traffic. I was getting cold and I was damp from my feet up to the hem of my jacket. Art was in a decent mood. Usually, when external circumstances are a little uncomfortable physically – like walking in a cold rain or hiking on a high, rocky hill – I am surly and he is steady and sportsmanlike. This was one of those times. Art saw a covered bus stop nearby and led the way. He was wearing walking shoes instead of hiking boots, and his shoes and socks were soaked. We were a soggy pair.
In the shelter an elderly man was already seated. I checked the bus schedule. What we wanted was a bus going back up the hill into the Edinburgh city center. None of the routes or destinations mentioned City Center, or even Edinburgh. I peered out of the shelter and looked for a phone booth, with the idea of calling a taxi to rescue a couple of American tourists at the bottom of the Royal Mile. There were no phone booths in sight.
I spoke to the seated man. “Do you know how we can get to City Center from here?” He responded. I recognized it as English but I didn’t understand a word. This man’s brogue was so heavy as to render our common language incomprehensible to me. Fortunately, he also gestured at the route posting and pointed up the road. We decided just to wait for the bus and take our chances.
The bus rumbled up. I stepped up and asked the driver if the bus went to the City Center. What he said was, I think, “Not that way, but you can get there if you get off at mumblemumble.” We decided that “you can get there if…” was good enough, got on the bus, and rode up the Mile until the streets looked reasonably familiar. We disembarked, walked five blocks, and arrived at the City Center carnival. The shelter by another bus stop was packed with waiting Scots and camera-toting tourists. Again I couldn’t figure out which way was the end of the line. I chose the wrong end and was chastised by an irritated young Scot.
Eventually a bus arrived. It filled up before it was our turn to get on. We waited for the next bus. Fifteen minutes later we arrived at our B&B. I decided I had seen enough of Edinburgh.
Art told me he knew just what I needed – an AA meeting. Leaving the B&B was not at all tempting to me, but I knew he was right. We had a list of meetings that I’d brought from home and, by some happy miracle, got off the evening bus at the right street. It was narrow and full of shops, like we’d seen elsewhere in England, where people buy their daily meals out of the shops rather than keep food in refrigerators in their flats. This was probably the “real” Scotland. The tenant in one of these little shops was Starbucks. We picked up scones and mochas for dinner.
We found the meeting address. It was just a doorway with a number. We rang the bell, and someone buzzed us in. At the top of a creaky stairway, a man greeted us with a handshake. There were between 30 and 40 people at the meeting – the largest one we’d been to on this trip. As each person spoke, we strained to understand them. Not only did they speak under their breath with heads down, they possessed that troublesome Scottish brogue! A word here or there was about all we could decipher, but we recognized the common misery of alcoholism, and the common hope of recovery.
Art’s comment:
After the meeting one of the old timers came up to me and asked me where I was from. He was glad that we could visit their city. He said he could have understood me better if I didn’t have such an accent!Attending that meeting turned out to be a good thing. When we left, I was relaxed and able to enjoy the rest of our last evening in Edinburgh.
I’ve thought about our Edinburgh experience since our return home. It was one of the few disappointments of the trip, and it wasn’t the city’s fault. If we could do Edinburgh again for the first time, I think we’d save it for a separate trip and really take in the flavor of the festival. Art and I like theatrical and musical productions, and a few days immersing ourself in the international ambiance of the place would have been memorable, I’m sure. Or else we’d come during a non-Festival time and experience the city during its normal life. We live and learn.